Opal Plumstead Read online

  I didn’t tell anyone at work. I certainly didn’t tell Mrs Roberts that Morgan was writing me letters. She was very chilly towards me the first few weeks after he went back to school. She swept straight past me when she inspected the design room and didn’t say a word – but she gradually thawed. I didn’t go to WSPU meetings any more, so we didn’t see each other at weekends, but Mrs Roberts started commenting on my artwork again. When I experimented with new backgrounds for my fairies, she became particularly enthusiastic.

  I thought it might be a good idea to have season-specific novelty ranges: a blue and yellow summer seaside scene, with fairies riding tiny white horses on the crests of waves; an orange and brown autumn scene, with fairies and baby squirrels playing ball games with nuts; a red and green Christmas scene, with fairies decorating a great Christmas tree; a pastel spring scene with fairies playing kiss-chase amongst the primroses.

  ‘You’re a little marvel, Opal,’ Mrs Roberts said. ‘We’d better concentrate on the seaside scene for the summer. I’ll suggest each girl paints one seaside background every day so that you can embellish them with your fairies.’

  I worked extra hard, trying to be newly inventive with each box lid. As soon as the summer seaside scene hit the shops in June, there was an immense demand.

  ‘Perhaps we might try several summer scenes,’ said Mrs Roberts. ‘We always go to Scotland in the summer. Perhaps you could try a Scottish scene, Opal – misty mountains and deer, and you could give your fairies little tartan dresses and wings.’ She laughed at her idea. I wasn’t sure if she were being serious or merely fanciful. I could only concentrate on one sentence: We always go to Scotland in the summer.

  We? Did she mean Morgan too? Why hadn’t he told me? Neither of us had specifically mentioned the summer, but I’d made so many plans in my head. I knew that Morgan would be finishing school and not going up to Oxford until October. I’d thought of all those Saturdays and Sundays we might spend together. I had a week’s holiday due too. All day long, painting my fairies, I’d planned what we would do. Every night when I went to sleep, I pictured us walking hand in hand, going round art galleries, paddling in streams, picnicking beside a lake, walking along a cliff top . . .

  My next letter to Morgan was terse and to the point.

  Dear Morgan,

  I was talking to your mother at the factory today and she said you always go to Scotland for the summer. Is this really true? Won’t you be here at all? Why didn’t you tell me?

  I usually signed my letter With great affection, your dear friend Opal.

  I signed this latest letter with just my name.

  Morgan’s reply was far more effusive, and immensely apologetic.

  Dearest Opal,

  Oh dear, I’m such a coward. I know I should have told you about Scotland ages ago. We have a holiday house there, a converted farmhouse. We still have the farmland too, but this is managed for us. I’ve been wondering what on earth to do this year. I know Mother loves our Scottish summers – and yet of course I want to spend time with you.

  I could simply not go with Mother, but I’m afraid this would upset her dreadfully, even though she has friends up in Scotland and wouldn’t be too lonely, I’m sure. But then I’d have to find somewhere to stay. Mother shuts up Fairy Glen for the summer – dustsheets everywhere – and Mrs Evans and Mitchell and the maids all come to Scotland with us. But this is certainly not insurmountable. Some of the chaps at school don’t live too far away, so perhaps I could stay with their folks – or I could stay in a hotel – that would be quite jolly. I know, perhaps I’ll stay at The Royal, and every evening you can come and dine with me – on honeydew and roast chicken and raspberry meringues, of course. Then we’ll sit in our own little parlour and play games and have a truly splendid time.

  I don’t think I’ve ever had such a perfect day as that Saturday we spent together. Didn’t we talk and talk and talk! I talk all day to the chaps here, but it’s always in the most trivial boring way. We’re mostly ragging each other or discussing cricket or telling stupid stories. We don’t ever say anything meaningful. And as I told you already, my conversations with other girls have been such nonsense, silly flirtations to make one squirm. You are so different, Opal – closer than a sister.

  I stopped reading then. I didn’t want him to think of me as a sister! And for all his seeming joy that we could say what we really meant to each other, Morgan seemed artfully evasive in his letter. He indicated he might not go to Scotland with his mother, he might stay with friends, he might stay in a hotel. Why wasn’t he more definite? Why couldn’t he stay with me? Or indeed, why couldn’t I be invited up to Scotland too?

  I was being evasive myself. I knew why. Oh, it would be perfectly respectable for a young man to come and stay for the summer in my house. Cassie’s room was empty, and Mother would be a vigilant chaperone. I could invite a young man like Freddy and no one would turn a hair. But Morgan was a gentleman. I couldn’t imagine him in our house, going out to the privy in the back yard, making do with one bath a week in the old chipped tub, eating bread and dripping for breakfast.

  It was even harder imagining Mrs Roberts saying, ‘Do come and stay with us for the summer, Opal. Never mind work – you deserve a long holiday. You’ll be such a delightful companion for Morgan. I’m so happy the two of you have such a close friendship.’

  She clearly hated Morgan and me liking each other. She had been truly kind to me and I’d always be grateful that she’d taken me under her wing and given me my chance in the design room. She had looked after me at WSPU meetings (until I dared question their actions), and invited me for lunch. She’d been so charming and encouraging – until Morgan came home. Then she made it plain that though I might be good enough to be her little protégée, this didn’t make me good enough to be friends with her precious son. She wanted me to know my place. I wasn’t sure what my place was any more.

  I went to see Cassie to ask her advice. She was actually fully dressed this time, in a splendid midnight-blue robe stitched with silver stars.

  ‘My goodness, Cassie, you look amazing. Is this the latest fashion?’

  ‘Of course not, you silly! I made it specially for Daniel’s new portrait. I am the Queen of the Night – and look, here are my night jewels.’ She lowered the neck of her velvet robe to show me a dazzling blue and white necklace around her beautiful white throat.

  ‘Sapphires and diamonds!’ I said.

  ‘Hardly. Daniel’s not that rich! They’re glass. I threaded them myself. I’ve got glass bead bracelets and anklets to wear too, but I’m not bothering just now because Daniel’s painting my top half first. It’s a special commission – a thousand pounds, can you believe it! Maybe I’ll get a real sapphire or diamond when it’s paid for. And do you know why Daniel’s got all this work? It’s all because of your silly suffragettes. Did you not read about it in the newspaper? Some woman was inspired by the slashing of the Rokeby Venus and went along to the Royal Academy. She saw Daniel’s portrait of me and went hack, hack, hack with her little axe!’

  ‘Oh no! Was it ruined?’

  ‘Not really. Her axe must have been very blunt. It barely made a mark. Daniel touched it up, and made it as good as new. But it was in the papers, so people flocked to see it – to see me, Opie. Daniel’s been commissioned to do two more Venuses, which will be a bit of a bore, but he’s willing enough. Then this old buffer, rich as Croesus, wants me being the Queen of the Night to hang in his bedroom right above his lordship’s bed. He’s a real lord, Opie – fancy that!’

  ‘Eew! Don’t you mind?’

  ‘Of course not. I mean, it’s not me in person. Come and have a peep at it. It’s truly marvellous. Everyone says Daniel’s never painted so well – and it’s all because of me.’ Cassie paused and flung her hair back dramatically. ‘I am his muse,’ she declared.

  I sighed. I was truly pleased that things were working out well for Cassie, but she was pretty insufferable in this mood.

  ‘Wait a m